


Breathe Me

by weweremadeforeachothersherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: set during TGG but ignore timeline issues because there may be some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weweremadeforeachothersherlock/pseuds/weweremadeforeachothersherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>yoshiwara-den-of-sin prompted: </p>
<p>What if Sherlock /did/ see through Jim’s IT disguise and call?<br/>Partly from curiosity, partly from something less easily defined?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Me

He’s so focused on the shoes he barely hears Mrs. Hudson’s steps up the creaky stairs.

“Sherlock?” He’s not sure why she bothers knocking if she’s going to come in anyway, apparently the habit of as many surrogate mothers as biological ones. The magnifying glass and the mystery trainers have his full attention, but she’s walking towards the kitchen anyway, interest diverted slightly by the periphery sight of a tan envelope in her outstretched hand. “There was a package for you-“

Sherlock’s left arm extends, his gaze following a moment later when Mrs. Hudson hands him the slim mailing box labeled Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting but the lack of stamp and return address make him take immediate notice, sitting up straighter on the kitchen chair. “Who delivered it?” The words are clipped and to the point, glancing up at Mrs. Hudson, who did not appear alarmed despite the bells already shrieking to life in Sherlock’s mind.

“I don’t know, it was just on the doorstep. Couldn’t have been long, I only got in from cutting the roses about an hour-“

“Thank you,” Sherlock says and he’s already pushed the chair back. It’s one stride to the other end of the table, where he sets down both envelope and magnifying glass, and plucks two gloves from the box of them. Mrs. Hudson is hovering, perhaps to see, but he doesn’t want her to worry. John has been kind enough to join her on the last two trips into the basement, and she’s only now beginning to get over that someone had gotten into 221c. “No cause for concern,” Sherlock states, even though he’s not entirely sure of that, as he tugs on one glove, then the other. “Fingerprints.” It’s highly unlikely, but worth a try. He knows who sent it, anyway, and the quiet anticipation is making him impatient with words.

Bringing a thumbnail to her lips in thought, Mrs. Hudson watches for a moment, wondering whether she should suggest waiting until John was home, just in case it was dangerous, after all. But Sherlock’s got the Thinking look on already, and perhaps it’s best to leave him to it… “Well, shout if you need me, dearie,” she says, and hears another mumbled ‘thank you’ as she turns back towards the stairs, which have been kept lit day and night – too many odd things happening as of late, to not take precautions.

So, Moriarty was sending him presents now, as well as cases. Sherlock shakes the light box, dull thumps and shuffles indicative of something small, protected by paper filler. The handwriting is decidedly male but neat, an unhurried hand. Sherlock is careful in opening the box, peering into it before deciding it was safe to upend, and into his open palm tumbles the small brown bottle.

Liquid. No label.

Sherlock’s brows furrow, and he holds the glass up to the barely suitable kitchen light. It looks clean, undoubtedly without prints, and he wants the lab, now, but it’s Molly’s day off and access will be difficult to come by. He can trust his senses best, or will have to, but the bottle itself gives him pause. The anticipation he would never admit to feeling at the sight of the box has an undercurrent of something like dread when his mind wraps around what this means. Moriarty must have some idea of Sherlock’s past pastimes, and has decided to taunt him with it.

It’s borders on insulting, yet…interesting. What deems it safe to inspect more closely has nothing to do with willpower, but that Sherlock’s not bored enough to be tempted or distracted. He is however endlessly curious and with a careful twist, he uncaps the bottle and brings it down to a few inches below his nose, taking a cursory inhale.

Sickly sweet strawberry makes an attack on his olfactory receptors and his nose wrinkles. It isn’t what he thought it would be, thankfully, but it’s entirely too chemical and strong, the fruity addition obviously meant to mask the substance. The underlying scent is unpleasant, earthy, moldy, decidedly worse than the sweetness but where does he know it from? He’s determined to find out, and blinks back a head rush that isn’t nearly enough to discourage him, though his other hand splays on the table to ensure staying upright and still. He draws the bottle closer, and closing his eyes to better focus on one sense at a time, inhales again more deeply.

When he exhales his shoulders lower slightly, tension he didn’t realize he’d been holding. It’s on the tip of his tongue, that scent, though he’s smarter than to taste it. He lets it simmer, mentally noting his own reactions: the intensifying but not unpleasant head rush. He can feel the blood behind the skin of his face - in fact, he feels warmer all over.

A wave of dizziness and Sherlock’s eyes open to combat it, and he’s not floating but perhaps a little stoned. Not falling but subtly, subconsciously restless, shifting so as nearly to press into the edge of the table. Heat, small side-effects of arousal without the usual evidence of such a thing, what did that? - ah! “Amyl nitrite…” Sherlock breathes, wonder and surprise in his tone as he lowers the bottle to the table, the scent filling either his nose or the entire room, he can’t tell. Window, good plan…But what would be the point of sending Sherlock that? It can’t kill him or put him out of commission or even properly distract him, so why this? Amyl nitrite, street name Poppers, a short-term, non-harmful aphrodisiac most commonly marketed for and favored by gay men-

Oh.

Sherlock exhales slowly, blinking, as the thought dawns fully and he begins to pick it apart. Confirmed: being watched even at Bart’s. Being teased for a social interaction in which he’d barely been a willing participant - had Molly’s ill-fated romance made himself a target simply for talking to Sherlock? No, the man means nothing to him, and clearly does not hold Sherlock’s interest. Tired, clubber’s eyes…The thought expands, as do Sherlock’s eyes with it.

_‘One day we will meet.’_

_‘Oh, that’s lame.’_

It seems unlikely, such a disguise, though Sherlock was fond enough of them himself…had Moriarty taken his ‘talk to me in your own voice’ to heart? Stupid, stupid…Clever enough to slip right under Sherlock’s radar, a mere blip…he would, Sherlock knows nothing about Moriarty but knows he would.

Reeling with adrenaline and bound to see this train of thought through to its possible crash, Sherlock forgets the window, and begins instead to look for the card. His brain is going back over the interactions he’s had before this, looking for corroborating evidence.

_‘You don’t know who I am.’_

_‘No, but you’re using phrases like ‘one day we will meet. If you’re going to stalk me or threaten me or whatever it is, at least use your imagination.’_

He finds it under layers of news clippings on the table, but pauses, staring at it, memorizing the number. Must wait out the chemical reaction until he can come up with something better than flat-out accusing the man of being Moriarty. That wouldn’t do, in case he was wrong. (Unlikely.) No, he had to match Jim’s cleverness, somehow, when he wasn’t feeling so hot under the collar…

Jim had taken a flirtatious tactic, had he not? The drug could be enough to inspire a genuine-sounding one in turn. How very clever, to use it rather than be distracted by it, and maybe get some answers.

Sherlock licks his lips, and smiles faintly while dialing the number. He leans back against the counter, heart beating more loudly than usual, and brings the phone to his ear, waiting with bated breath for the soft voice, planning on paying its every word the attention it may very well have been due.

Jim’s in the backseat of a car without its headlights on, just pulling up to the site of a meeting when his phone chimes. Whoever it is he doesn’t have the time for it, but out of curiosity he checks the screen, and nearly drops the phone in surprise. Jim’s lips curve into a slow smile. “Hmm, bad timing, darling!” he mock-tells the ringing device in his hand, voice sliding into a purr, “But I’m ever so pleased you called.”

He sounds pleased, and wonders if Sherlock’s enjoying his present, and is tempted to find out but – sigh, business is business, and the time he’s allotted for messing with Sherlock’s head is on a very tight schedule. The smile, though, says everything – thankfully to no one but the driver - and Jim clicks ‘Send to Voicemail’ with some regret before turning the phone in his hand, giving the black plastic a happy peck, as one might a good luck charm.

He’s got to put on a hard face for the meeting but this secretly makes his night, because maybe Sherlock is beginning to figure things out. Maybe he’s frustrated. Oh, delightful. Jim may have ignored the call even if he was free, just to get a fun result like that. Little successes such as these only increase his certainty that he can do anything. It’s heady and useful and will see him through this meeting and the next several, knowing that Sherlock was just waiting for him at this point, just waiting…

When the call goes to an automated voicemail message, Sherlock grimaces. He’s impatient. He wants to know. When he closes his eyes again, the dizziness fading, the only color flaring behind his lids is a bright, bright green.


End file.
